


Echo

by quillslinger



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King, IT Chapter Two - Fandom
Genre: Adult Mind Kid Body, Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, BAMF Richie Tozier, Beverly Marsh Will Graduate From Being a Romantic Plot Point, Beverly Marsh is a Good Friend, Beverly and Mike and Ben are not Stereotype Vehicles for the Plot thx, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Guess It's Not Really Time Travel, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Mike Hanlon Deserves Nice Things, Mike Hanlon is a Good Friend, More Like Reality Hole, Never Thought I'd Be That Person To Write A Time Travel Fic, Oblivious Eddie Kaspbrak, Parallel Universes, Period Typical Bigotry, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Richie Tozier Is Puberty'd Into Finn Wolfhard, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier is Going To Try And Fix Everything, Richie Tozier is a Little Shit, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Second Chances, Underage - Freeform, idk what this is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2020-10-10 12:04:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20527754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quillslinger/pseuds/quillslinger
Summary: After the final battle, Richie stumbles through life dreaming of what could’ve been.All he has now are dreams, anyway.But even with ‘it’ gone, Derry is still beyond strange. There are still rifts. Still holes.And Richie never was the most graceful guy.





	1. Back To Derry

“Richie, for fuck's sake, wake up! You’re on in five!”

Richie rubs his brow until he sees white spots dance behind his eyes, releasing a deep, guttural sigh.

He is beyond weary at this point. Bone tired.

He stands and ignores the cries of his staff and crew to stop, to come back and at least straighten his appearance. He stalks over to the mic stand, and looks out at the sea of people. The spots still dance and it's almost as if everyone's faceless to him.

He decided it then.

This will be his last set for a while.

He needs a break.

* * *

Richie drives into town the following week.

Derry.

Everything is pretty much the same. Same buildings (save for one), same hangouts (excluding the abandoned, boarded up ones), and the same stuff. Except there are new faces.

...And there are no more clowns.

He had first sensed it when the gang escaped the crumbling Well House. He _knew_ it when they jumped from the old cliff.

Derry was different. Cleansed.

_ They _ were cleansed.

But then again, some things couldn’t be washed away. Some stuff couldn't be brought back in by any tides, no matter how strong.

But things still feel odd in a non-horrific sense. Because everyone and everything Richie knew from before...? From childhood...?

Gone. Faded. The school has a new mascot now. They actually win baseball games these days. The old Derry library has computers now, and Bill was right, it felt way smaller than it had when he was a kid. The movie theater has been reupholstered from the ground up. The arcade closed years ago.

But the Derry Kissing Bridge is still there.

His engraving is still there.

He hopes it stays for a long time. He hopes it lasts longer than Pennywise ever did.

After driving around the town for a bit, Richie checks into the old townhouse. He figures it should freak him out that it was a place where the mullet moron almost hacked everyone to bits, but Richie’s been through too much shit for that to hold any weight at this point.

Not a lot stuff scares him anymore.

He doesn't know if that should worry him or not.

He lays out on the bed, suitcases askew, wondering what he should do.

What now?

He said he'd never come back to this place and now here he was.

Is he retiring? If he does, will he move here? No, no one’s here...even Mike left. He doesn't know the current townsfolk of Derry and they don't know him. They would never know Derry the way he knows this place.

_ 'It would be lonely.' _

_ 'You already **are** lonely.' _

So where would he go? New York...? Jersey...? The west coast...? 

Maybe he just...

...needs to go for a walk right now.

Richie hoists himself up and lumbers out the door, thoughts swirling.

* * *

Walking around town is a little bit of a bummer, he decides.

Not Derry itself, of course.

The weather’s crisp and gorgeous. The sun is shining. According to hasty online searches and crumpled newspapers, there have been no more disappearances or corpses found since they killed 'it'. Kids are playing in the street. Adults stroll the blocks happily, their hands enfolded and their moods light. Delinquents throw empty bottles around around, fucking with loners and parked vehicles, but keeping to themselves mostly. Nothing like the animals from Richie's day.

It’s not Derry that's bumming him out.

It’s the memories.

Richie sighs heavily, not wanting to go there.

_ 'Why would you even **come** here if you don't want to think about any of that shit?' _

_ 'Aah, the question of our millennia.' _

He fumbles in his pocket for a lighter, wanting a sudden hit of nicotine. His hands suddenly slow in their movements, deciding to try and forego the familiar urge. No one outside of the gang who knew him would believe it, but he'd been clean for the past few months. He didn’t go toe to toe with an evil supernatural force from outer space just to kick the bucket over a few cigs.

And if he's honest...he doesn't like the thought of disappointing Eddie.

‘Cause if Eddie were here...if Eddie could be _here_...he would care so, so incredibly too much that Richie was a heavy smoker. He would rant and rave about the downfalls of addiction and the effect of tobacco and nicotine on one’s health. He would constantly bitch about the odor, the smell, the residue, the ashes. There had been a time where Richie would have tuned out the lecturing.

Now? He would give all the money from every special he’d ever filmed just to hear it again. He would give up every laugh he had ever been able to crack from every joke he'd ever made. He would face 'it' again, if he could. He would.

It’s more than difficult. It’s more than hard. Those are massive understatements, but when it comes to talking about Eddie...not _to_ him, 'cause that was so _easy_, no, not to him, not taunting him either, but _about_ him...words become difficult. His verbal faucet turns off.

Everything turns off.

When words fail him, Richie closes his eyes to rely on the memories instead.

Even though they hurt.

They hurt so fucking much, he sees the white spots dance again. If he let his sanity slip from his fingers a little, he could almost pretend they were the Deadlights.

Eddie's face flashes in the light. Then everything darkens once more.

He opens his eyes, taking a deep breath.

Richie continues to wander through the streets of Derry.

* * *

“Hey, look out, bum!”

Richie yelps, turning his body and jumping out the way as children speed by him on chipped skateboards, their wheels clacking over the wooden panels of the bridge.

“Little fucks!” he yells after them, shaking his fist.

Heh.

He used to be a little fuck, too.

He misses those days.

He turns back to the wooden railing of the bridge, eyes searching.

_'Where, where, where....**there**.'_

_R + E_

He feels grounded seeing it. Weighted.

He reaches out to touch it. The words flicker.

"...the _fuck_...?"

Almost as if a power line had been implanted into the wood. It happens so fast that he can hardly process what he sees. Richie's skin makes contact with the engraving.

Then everything starts.

Suddenly, he feels odd. Not ‘it’ odd. But definitely ‘something’s about to happen’, odd. The hair on the back of his neck rises. His gut feels like it's falling to the balls of his feet.

That’s the last thought he has before he feels an intense force, falls backward, and trips into the rift, the echo.

...

His eyes open. He's face down on the ground.

Great.

"Agh...Derry's gotta' lay off of the upgrades if they don't have the budget to keep that shit in check, _Jesus _my head..." He prays he has all his limbs still attached, no thanks to the town's obvious lack of keeping their structures up to regulation codes. What was that? An electrical misfire?

He plants both hands onto the pavement, pushing himself up. He's weaker than he realized.

As he slowly rises from the cement, as the world spins around, he realizes.

The scar.

The oath scar on his hand is back. 

His..._much_ smaller, younger hand.

He's seen enough sci-fi movies to know which way this shit is going.

“No way...no way no way noway_nowayno—_”

“—Richie?”

Oh dear god.

He _knows_ that voice.

Richie looks up, wondering vaguely if his dreams have finally spilled into reality. If he's just finally gone crazy.

Eddie.

Eddie is standing above him, wide-eyed, young, and curious.

“...What are you _doing_ down there, Rich'? The ground's so gross, man. Get up, they're waiting for us!”


	2. The Gang's All Here

Richie is sure that he’s gaping up at Eddie for far longer than necessary. Eddie just stares back down at him with a bewildered look, probably wondering why Richie has just suddenly short-circuited.

And he’d be right. Richie's brain has totally fried itself just now.

Because never in a million years_—_never _ever—_did Richie believe that he’d somehow get another chance at this. Another opportunity to hear the sound of Eddie's voice one more time. And believe him, he’s tried to hear it again. No dice. They were eighties kids. They hadn’t been smart enough to imprint their images forever on VHS and all of their cassette recordings were lost, all the secret notes and time capsules, all the letters and drawings they shared, lost throughout the years. Gone. The only place that held solid remnants of Eddie that Richie had been able to find was their old clubhouse. A few doodles on the walls. Some comics of his. Old, dusty medicine bottles. Half of an inhaler.

He’d kept all that shit. He’d made a fucked up little memory box out of them that he kept in his penthouse, in a secret drawer that he only opened when he felt like fucking up his week.

At their private funeral service for Eddie, Richie had tried really, _really_ hard to act like he had his shit together. For the others. He didn’t want anyone to think he was about to pull a Stanley. Fuck, that was rude, right...? But c'mon, even _ he _ wished Stanley hadn’t pulled a Stanley. They all did, of course.

Richie's not gonna' lie to himself, he had kind of felt like pulling a Stanley after the Well House fell in on itself. He didn't like the thought of Eddie being down there. It bothered him tremendously.

He didn’t know. His thoughts hadn’t been the clearest lately.

He just wanted people to think he was okay.

He didn’t want them to know the truth.

That was becoming a pattern, it seemed.

Besides. He had a sneaking suspicion that the gang already knew things weren't okay. There had been small, subtle approaches to check his crazy-meter. Texts and calls checking in on him, bullshit conversation starters that were just intended to lead up to, 'You can tell us anything if you feel like talking, Richie'. The forwardness surprised him. Stan probably changed that about all of them.

So many times in the past, they’d all caught onto something but out of respect for each other, they’d kept tight-lipped. Maybe they shouldn’t have done that. Maybe things would be different if they trusted each other more with the fragile things, the shaky stuff.

What the fuck is he even doing.

“Uh_..._” he tries, scrambling up. His sense of balance feels all wrong. He feels tiny. He feels lighter and cleaner than normal, inside and out. His hearing is better. His sense of smell is better. His eyesight is still shit. He feels way more able in general. But, his voice also sounds like a squeak-toy again, so his born-again youth didn’t have all the best perks. “Uh...”

Eddie just raises a brow, quieter than he’s ever been as the kid that Richie remembered.

“Are you okay, Richie?" Eddie asks suddenly. "Are you sick?” His voice is oddly soft, tinged with concerned.

Richie can only stare, trying to form words.

He just can’t believe this. Any of this.

He slowly reaches out to touch Eddie’s arm, just to feel it. Just to know it’s real. Eddie's so...small like this. He doesn't remember him being this tiny, not really. He had always seemed larger than life before.

“I...maybe?” He responds slowly. The scratchiness of puberty’s edge is there. He’s looking through those shitty prescription glasses his mom used to always make him wear because they didn’t have any money for the good stuff.

He’s thirteen years old again. In Derry.

And Eddie is here.

He feels the drops of moisture tracking down his face before he can realize or even fully understand what they are. They collect at his chin and fall towards the ground.

“I—" is all he can get out before his face crumples and the sobs start.

“Richie?!” Eddie exclaims, grabbing onto Richie and balancing him through the crying fit. Richie just shivers and shakes like the kid he suddenly is and not like the forty year old man that he was just minutes ago.

It’s just a lot.

He wasn’t ready to get this again. He’s so, so happy he is, but it’s hard to process Eddie being right here beside him when he had only held Eddie just months ago, stone cold in his arms. He had been forced to leave him in that filthy sewer. Eddie would’ve hated being left in such a dirty place. Hated it.

But Eddie’s not there right now.

He’s here...? Or isn’t he?

Was this all an illusion from ‘it’?

No. Probably not. Richie was unfortunately familiar enough with those facades to know the difference. 

And he wasn’t afraid.

He opened his eyes, vision still blurring from the shit glasses and the tears. Eddie’s jostling his arm now, insisting that Richie tell him what’s wrong so they can narrow down a medicine and get it inside of him, pronto. Did he hit his head too hard? Did he need Eddie to run to the pharmacy for some band-aids or bacitracin? Was he feeling dizzy? Was his tongue going numb?

Richie shakes his head, laughing a little through the whimpers. Eddie never changes.

It's a good thing.

“It’s okay,” he finds his voice, finally. “I’ll be okay. Just gimme’ a sec.”

Eddie waits by his side while Richie breathes in and out until everything clears.

“Richie,” Eddie whispers again, “you wanna’ sit down for a bit? Until you feel better?”

“You know, I love the way you say my name,” Richie blurts suddenly.

Eddie stiffens beside him.

"..."

Richie looks straight ahead, surprised at himself. He's a little afraid, even now, to see what Eddie’s face may look like if he catches on.

“...That’s _not_ funny, man. I’m seriously worried,” Eddie reprimands, but his words are a little stilted. His cheeks are a little pink, but nothing else signals that he’s uncomfortable or suddenly realized anything.

“Don’t be. I’m just having a weird day. A really, fucked up, weird day.”

Eddie pouts. “Well...wanna’ talk about it?”

“God no. Let’s go meet the others.”

Richie is not even about to begin to go into what’s happening around him. He just wants to spend time with Eddie. And possibly, see the others in their kid forms too. That'd be beyond interesting.

He knows he’s ignoring a huge elephant in the room. He’s somehow in a timeline or a universe...a _whatever_ the fuck...that he shouldn’t be in. He doesn’t know if every move he makes or every word he’s saying is affecting future him or parallel him or nothing at all. He doesn’t know if he’ll disintegrate in five days, five minutes, or five seconds. And what about who he is right now, this person, this young version of himself? What happened to the consciousness in this body when he hijacked it? He’s still forty years old in his head. He still remembers everything. Everything. He knows he touched the engraving and got here. Maybe if he touches it again, it can take him back? ...Does he even wanna’ go back? Does he wanna’ be thirteen again? Go through high school and college and everything all over again? With what he knows now, can he hit the lottery big time? Diversify his stock portfolio with the knowledge of the companies that would go big? Or have the lotto numbers and the companies all changed in this universe? What else changed, if anything? He feels like his head will hurt pretty soon at this rate.

Maybe he’d make a better go of it this time aroun—

Oh _shit_.

‘It’.

If the scar is back, so is ‘it’. He doesn’t even know where on the timeline he is. It had to have been after the first time they slugged that clown and dumped him down a hole. Or else the scar wouldn’t already be there, right...?

At least he knows how to kill ‘it’ now.

And he’s definitely not scared this time. If he can take out his own forty year old, ‘watched-my-friend-slash-first-kinda-really-serious-crush-die-terribly’ frustrations out on this current universe’s ‘it’, then that’s exactly what he’s going to fucking do. Make all this sci-fi bullshit work in his favor.

And he can save the whole gang doing it this time, if he can get them on board. He’ll need their help.

They can save Stanley before he...'takes himself off the board'.

They can save Eddie before he gets murdered in the sewers.

Holy shit.

Holyshitholyshitholyshit-

“That’s it Richie, you’re being such a space cadet right now, it’s scaring me. You're like a ninety-two percent chance of being concussed right now. Let’s go tell the others that you’re not feeling good and then go back to my place, okay? Mom’s busy at the crochet and knitwear expo and my medicine cabinet’s stocked. C’mon, c’mon!”

“I—” Richie begins to protest, but then stops. They’re all the way out at Kissing Bridge. His face warms at the thought. But that’s not the point, Kissing Bridge is pretty far out from town. How will they—?

“I don’t have my car,” Richie remembers suddenly.

“Your _ car _?”

“—Ohuhhhh, my Hot Wheels. I dropped it. Oh no.” He waves his hands a little for effect.

“Fuck you, are you eight? Let’s go.”

“I don’t have a bike, Eddie! Where am I gonna' go, down the block?”

“So you're telling me you didn't bring yours? Then how did you get all the way out h—? Nevermind. I have pegs on mine, okay? Just hold on.”

Eddie leads Richie over to his black, low-rider, baby bike. Sure enough though, pegs stick out the back, wide enough for a friend to stand comfortably behind the rider.

“Oh my god, I forgot you were a total midget,” Richie blurts, eyeballing the tiny bike.

“I can’t believe I’m trying to help you,” Eddie grumbles. “Just shut up and hop on!”

Richie shuts his trap, not wanting to upset Eddie after just getting the blessing of having him back.

Also, he doesn’t want to get stranded out here in the boonies. Mullet face is probably still lurking around these parts and he's probably just as crazy now as he was back when Richie was an adult.

He hops onto the pegs, holding on tightly to Eddie’s shoulders.

“Aye-aye captain. And away we go!” Richie shouts, giddiness filling him.

Eddie begins to pedal and Richie watches the world begin to race by. This is better than his sports car by far.

It’s like...

...It’s like liquid gold.

Richie closes his eyes for a moment and dreams. He remembers. He remembers that when you’re all grown up and you get a whiff of a scent, or hear a certain tune, that it can trigger intense childhood memories and for a few split moments, you feel like you’re back in the beauty of youth.

That’s where he is. In that good place. That golden place.

With Eddie.

And he’s still confused of course, he's still anxious, lost, and in pain...he’s still in love with a dead boy come back to life...but he’s happier than he’s been in the last twenty-seven years.

He is.

* * *

The ride to the Barrens doesn’t take long. Eddie is short but he is fucking booking it, speeding through dirt roads, zooming over asphalt, and zipping through shortcuts. He is pedaling like his life depends on it, regardless of the extra weight that is Richie he is lugging on the back. It’s almost as though it doesn’t matter.

Richie can hardly recall that urgent rush to be with his friends. The impending importance it held to him as a kid. 

But he can still remember that he felt it once, a long time ago.

Utterly happy, he watches the green rush by. 

He hears the Losers before he sees them. They’re all relaxing on the forest floor, surrounded by their own bikes, tossing a ball back and forth and listening to some clunky radio. They gaze up one at a time as they all begin to notice Eddie drawing near on his bike. Eddie brakes a few feet away before kickstanding the bike.

Richie moves to hop off and greet the others, but Eddie’s hand on his slows him. It's almost as if he's been shocked once more. Eddie's hand is soft, warm. Kind of sweaty, too.

Damn. Never thought he’d feel that again.

Feels good.

Eddie states, “Richie’s not feeling so hot guys—”

“—When has he ever?” Stanley deadpans, side-eyeing them tauntingly.

What the fuck.

“Stan the Man, don’t pretend you don’t dream about me at night. Jealousy’s not a good look,” Richie quips. The banter is so easy for him. It’s like he falls right back into place, like a puzzle piece.

“_Anyways_,” Eddie cuts sharply, annoyed, “I’m going to take him to my place for meds. You guys should come. My mom’s not home and won't be for a while.”

The others shrug and a chorus of 'sure' and “yeah' erupts before everyone hops up, grabbing their own bikes, and following after Eddie.

Richie glances a look over as Beverly seats herself on the back of Bill’s bike, gripping onto him tightly from behind. Bill apears as stoic as always, but Richie knows the guy’s probably happy as pie inside. Ben looks predictably pissed. Richie wonders how they all hadn’t seen it before. Probably the killer clown business, distracting them.

He looks at his own hands on Eddie’s shoulders. They’re nice and firm. But he kinda’ wishes he could hold onto Eddie the same way that Beverly could hold onto Bill.

_‘Is that weird?’_ he thinks as Eddie rides them out of the Barrens and onto a road, a pretty big feat considering all of the roots and branches and tough dirt there is to cycle over. He’s still technically forty. He’s an adult in mind, right? So wouldn’t that make him pretty pedophilic to still look at his crush in a romantic way, considering that Eddie is thirteen years old? But Richie himself is physically a thirteen year old, too. And he liked Eddie even as an adult. Does that excuse it?

Probably not. Richie knows shit now. Adult shit. And he could probably use that against this younger version of Eddie. That’d be pretty fucked up. Besides, if Eddie knew that his Richie was really a forty-year-old transported through time and space, he probably wouldn’t be too interested himself.

As if he'd be interested to begin with.

Richie never figured that he'd be. Even if Richie really was thirteen.

But then again, is his life really _that_ bound by normal rules? The stuff they’ve been through...does that outweigh his current moral dilemma? Could he live with himself if he did anything with this Eddie that he wouldn’t have done at thirteen?

_ ‘Well. I’m kind of a piece of shit. So yeah, I think I could sleep at night.'_

In his head, it's easy to joke. But it's a matter he finds concerning and isn't quite sure how to approach yet. Maybe he just...shouldn't approach it at all.

He's knocked out of his thoughts when Eddie brakes hard enough that he damn near flies off the bike.

They’re here.

“Key’s under the mat,” Eddie shouts to the others while kickstanding his bike and helping Richie down.

Bill nods, moving forward to let the others in.

Richie steps carefully off the bike, but Eddie’s hand moves from supporting his to wrap into the fabric of his Hawaiian shirt. Richie glances over to see concern written all over Eddie's face.

“Take it easy, okay?” Eddie warns gently. “You really did scare me back there.”

Richie watches for a beat too long before nodding.

“I'm sorry. I'll be more careful.”

That in itself seems to freak Eddie out even more, who takes Richie’s simple apology and agreement in bewilderment. 

Richie turns and heads off into the house, shoulders raised and feeling the watchful eyes on his back.

This is going to be a weird ass week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I messed up when I posted this, it was intended to be multi-chapter this entire time, heh.


	3. Fix It Felix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fucking love October.

Eddie's house is exactly how Richie remembered it.

It still smells like mothballs and feet in the living room, where Eddie's mother occupied ninety-nine percent of her time. He isn't surprised that it was crochet and knitwear that finally forced her from stasis sleep on the sofa. The interior decor is still atrocious. There’s still plastic shrink-wrapping on most of their furniture. It's still as dark and muggy as a ghoul's cavern. It feels claustrophobic. Kinda’ like how Richie remembers Eddie’s mom being.

Claustrophobic. Unwilling to give any leniency to anything in any way whatsoever. She always wanted to be the one holding the reigns, God forbid Eddie do any critical thinking for himself. She was the one who planted the seeds of paranoia and from there, they sprouted into something limiting and pretty tragic. 

Richie had gotten a lot of time to think about this. After years of being able to ruminate on the past before they all forgot everything tied to Derry, and then returning as geezers only to get re-traumatized, grief-stricken, and ruminate further, Richie concluded that Eddie's mother was a mega health control freak because she wanted to manipulate her son into never leaving her like his dad did. They all had theories about Eddie's father, even as adults, because it was a subject that surprisingly, Eddie refused to speak about. The adults in Derry seemed to know, but they wouldn't speak about it with kids either.

And so they were left guessing. No pictures. No stories.

Just _'mommy'_.

If he had to guess, Richie assumed that 'mommy' had a mild to moderate form of Munchausen syndrome or something equally awful. Not to the point where she'd slowly kill Eddie or expose him to crazy shit in the name of being able to say that he was 'sick'...but maybe to the point where she'd lie about what he was sick with. Why he needed certain medicines. He'd seen it enough, hanging out with Eddie. She often came up with illnesses to be wary of, conditions and ailments, usually out of her ass. And Eddie drank it up like water. Hell, Richie wasn't even sure the asthma was real. Maybe just an anxiety tic that was misdiagnosed as asthma, no thanks to Eddie's psycho mother.

Richie remembers desperately wishing that Eddie's mother would butt out of things for once. Let the guy live. Breathe. Play around. But because she refused, Eddie was scared of so many unnecessary things. And his fears made Richie bury his secrets deeper and deeper.

He didn't want to become the diseased thing to fear.

Who knew? If he'd told Eddie the truth back when he was a kid for real...if he'd gotten some guts...Eddie might've started thinking he'd catch AIDS from breathing around Richie or some shit. He would've abandoned Richie. Everyone would abandon him. He'd been so sure of it as a kid. He was pretty sure of it, now. Eddie might not have even cared about AIDS if it hadn't been for his mother's intense, bigoted rants.

When Beverly joined the group, Eddie's mom kept implying to be watchful of chlamydia, venereal warts and other shit none of them had even learned about in sex-ed yet. Basically called her a slut without saying it. Richie remembered Beverly looking humiliated and Ben subsequently getting banned from coming back into the house after cussing Mrs. Kaspbrak out. Rightfully, he figured. Then Mike started hanging around the group. Mrs. Kaspbrak spouted some bullshit about HIV, hepatitis from needles, crack and other racist garbage. She had more issues than the X-Men series. God knows what else she'd tried to force on Eddie about Bill or Stan or Ben._ 'Watch out Eddie, stutters are contagious! Stan is anemic and he'll infect you! Ben is a big boy and we can't have you catching diabetes! Everyone is toxic but me, blahblahblah...' _Eddie at least had the decency to look highly embarrassed both times and tried to shut her up, but the damage had been done. Stan got kicked out for cussing her out too because of what she said about Mike, something that Richie didn't even know was possible for Stan to do, and none of them came around Eddie's house afterwards.

Hell, the only reason they were here right now was probably because she _wasn't_.

She had run his entire life for so long.

No wonder Eddie ended up with another version of his mother.

...Myra, wasn’t it?

_'Bitch.'_

Richie huffs a little, reprimanding himself mentally. He didn’t even know Myra. Had never met her. He’d only heard a few frantic phone calls that Eddie had to endure with her before the battle in the sewers. He was totally jealous, of course. When he learned that Eddie had married, moreso when he realized Eddie had hitched himself to a whale-ish mimic of his mother, Richie wanted to pull his fucking hair out from the roots. Eddie could do better. Hell, Richie was a better catch than Myra...well. Sort of. Was he a catch in general? No. He was a drugged out rehab-rat, a frequently inebriated, closeted shell of a guy. The booze and blow was originally intended to blur the bad memories, but all it had done was snatch his youthful glow away and left behind a strung out mess. He hadn't worked out in a billion years. His hair had gone limp and stringy, balding a little at the top. Even so, he was still _positive_ he could’ve given Eddie a better, much more fulfilling partnership than Myra ever could. But he also knew that just because he felt some kind of way about it, didn’t mean that he could be a douchebag.

Didn't stop any of the fat jokes though.

_'Heh, those are always good, though...Oh, who am I kidding...?'_

As much as he hated to think it, Myra probably...

...just had something he _didn’t._

For one, she was a woman. And Eddie was straighter than a knife's edge. In the ways that mattered, Myra wasn’t a total mess. Probably. On the inside, anyway. In a metaphorical way—

“What’s eating you, Rich’?”

Richie jumps at the sudden call of his name, glancing up to see Mike watching him closely. The others turned after overhearing Mike's inquiry, staring at Richie in unison.

Oh.

He’d just been standing in the doorway, looking pissed. No wonder.

Mike and Beverly glance at one another before Beverly speaks up.  
  
"She's not here, Richie. It's okay. It's...nice that you're upset for us, but let's just have a good time. We're all banned. We may as well enjoy it while we're here."  
  
Richie sighs dramatically. "This plastic palace will have to do, I guess. Eddie's mom is still a bitch, though."  
  
"You can say that again," Stan agrees quietly.

“Um, no you _can't_!" Eddie explodes, "Yes, my mom's a huge bitch, thank you for the reminder, guys! But here's another one for you: she's still my _mother_. Leave the name-calling to me, okay? And Stan, you have literally zero room to say anything about judgy parents," Eddie bites. Stan looks away, shrugging but eyes downcast. They all knew how _his_ folks were. "Besides, we don't have time to talk about this! Just _look_ at him," Eddie throws a hand over in Richie's direction.

They all look and Richie realizes he's been swimming in his thoughts again. He snaps out of it but it's too late. 

"He’s severely concussed,” Eddie explains loudly, steering Richie through the living room and past the confused expressions of their friends. “This requires immediate and focused attention! If you’ll excuse us...!”

Richie hears a mumbled _“yeah, right,”_ as they turn the corner. He can’t think of what to do to stop this crazy misdiagnosis train because Eddie already has him in the bathroom, pushing Richie down on his shoulders to force him to sit on the porcelain. Eddie is so much shorter than he is, that he has to reach. It’s funny. When they were adults, it was still kind of the same. Richie had liked that.

Little changes. Even with the marriage and the drugs and the celebrity status, even with the years between them...some things hadn't changed.

Eddie pulls out a monstrous book from beside the medicine cabinet, flipping through it and licking at his fingers to continue mulling.

“C-sections, canker sores, carpal tunnel, chlorine poisoning, common cold..._ah!_ Concussions.”

Richie stares blankly.

“Dude, why don’t you just Google it?”

Eddie frowns, glancing up from the thick book.

“Huh?”

“Google it,” Richie reiterates, waving his hand at the nonsensical size of the 'medical paranoia' textbook, “that thing is like, ancient. Even if I _did_ have a concussion, which I_ don’t_, that book was probably made in like 1942. You're going to go caveman and drill a hole in my skull to fix the issue after consulting that old shit. Just search it on your phone.”

Eddie’s eyes widen, his expression growing increasingly horrified.

“Richie...you’re not making _any_ sense. Holy _shit_, you’re super concussed. This is like a grade 3 concussion!”

In his frustration, Richie happens to glance out the bathroom doorway to see Eddie’s cordless phone, perched on the wall.

“Oh fuck,” he realizes.

Eighties. Duh.

_'Is Google even out, yet...? Will it ever come out in this universe...? I know where I'm buying stock, that's for sure.'_

Eddie races out the bathroom, moments passing before he's running back in with a bunch of stuff in his hands.

“Drink this,” he shoves a huge cup of water into Richie’s hands, effectively spilling it down Richie's shirt but moving too fast to apologize. “Swallow this,” he forces two Tylenols past Richie’s annoyed, pursed lips. “—and use this!”

He reveals a hunk of ice bundled up in a washcloth. He presses it to Richie’s temple, and the freezing ice sends a shock straight to Richie’s nervous system.

He shrieks like an absolute bitch.

“Ah! Eddie, no, nono_no_—”

“—We have to keep the swelling down or you could get brain damage, Richie!”

“Eddie, I am getting brain damage as we _speak_ from brain freeze! It’s so cold it hurts—” Richie's whines are cut off by shivers.

“Well,” Eddie tries to placate, looking a little apologetic, “brain freeze is only a superficial feeling because it's just your nerves and vessels contracting. Actual brain damage will hurt more, trust me. Here.”

Eddie starts to rub Richie’s legs up and down, fast like he’s trying to set a fire. Richie had forgotten that he doesn’t really have hair there anymore because he’s thirteen, but it feels like a whole new world of nerves are being scrubbed alive. He remembers _very_ clearly now. This must be what chicks talk about when they shave or something after winter. He gasps, leaning back a little and almost pulling his legs away. He feels his face heat up.

This is a lot. Stupid little pills bobbing on his tongue, ice on his head, hands on his legs. And he's not even used to this kid body yet.

Eddie is also being really handsy...and Richie is just now realizing he is wearing those short shorts that they all used to tout back in the day. He thought he'd been feeling windy drafts on his asscheeks for the past hour, but nothing had clicked until now.

Fucking _eighties_, man.

“What are you...?” he tries.

“Friction. For warmth.”

Eddie doesn’t look the least bit embarrassed, not seeming to realize Richie’s internal struggles. Richie tries to remember that this kind of skinship wasn’t weird between the guys back when he was a kid. That platonic friendship in his heyday included quite a bit of homoerotic-esque stuff. Hell, modern day platonic male friendships were full of homo shit. Or maybe it was just that this was normal stuff, without a sexualized lens?

Or maybe he was just wildly paranoid because he repressed himself for forty years...?

Or maybe Richie was thinking about all this crap to try and not pop a boner...?

_ ‘Ugh.’ _

His thirteen year old body has fucked hormones, he can already feel it. _ Fuck _. Nothing about this situation is even remotely arousing. He has a glacier on his head, two sandpaper pills in his mouth, and a kid trying to friction the skin off his legs.

It’s not arousing.

Well. 

Maybe a tiny amount.

He jostles Eddie off, tucking his legs into his body and perching atop the toilet lid. His soles hung off the edge and he just took a deep breath.

_'Be cool. Be mature.'_

“Look. Eddie. I know you’re worried and all. But I’m okay.”

Eddie looks strangely nervous now, still on his knees on the floor. Afraid, almost.

“I...please, Richie? It would make me feel better to know that we took the proper precautions. You’re just...you might not be okay.”

Richie sighs, his shoulders collapsing in quiet submission. He was on the precipice of one of those anxiety waves where he had trouble swallowing everything that was going on. It was about to roll over his head, but he was trying to stay on top of things. No more freakouts. Not if he's gonna' keep up the act.

“...I’m kinda’ not okay, I guess. But not in the way _you_ think.”

Eddie’s brows furrow at that.

“What do you mean? Can you explain it to me? I'm sure we've got something in this house to fix it, whatever it is.”

"I know you have a pharmacy in this place Eddie, but it's not a...it's not a physical health issue."

"Then what is it?"

At least, he thinks it's not. He's still not sure if dimension-hopping will disintegrate him or not in five minutes. But as Richie sits, fiddling his fingers of one hand gently on his knee, he thinks. He means...he means...

He means he never really got over what happened to Eddie. What happened to all of them, in the years of 'it' and afterwards. About what's happening to him right now, to be honest. But mostly about what happened to Eddie.

Of course he hadn’t gotten over it, he thinks. He probably never will, not even with the Eddie of his dreams in front of him. The older Eddie. His Eddie. This one was his too, they all were his in his mind, but this one was bodily alright. The other one...he had told that one a lie, that not being afraid was the key to him surviving that nightmare. But it wasn’t true for Eddie. Eddie died thinking that. That Richie had talked him into the Well House hole to die down there. Afraid. Alone.

Eddie died because he believed Richie.

...Now he knows how Bill must’ve felt all those years.

When Eddie had been skewered like he was nothing, a toy, Richie could see the betrayal in Eddie’s eye. No blame, because he was sweet and still oddly innocent like that. Not even with death’s lips on him. But betrayal nonetheless. And fear.

So much fear.

He doesn’t know how to tell this Eddie about that. He doesn't know how to tell anyone about that. He doesn’t want to, if he’s being honest. How could he do such a thing?

_'I let you die in another place and time. Sorry.’_

'It' is here now...what if...what if what happened to Eddie before happens aga—

No.

God **no**.

_Fuck_, he has to focus! He has to stop thinking about that shit. His Eddie is right here, looking at him worriedly. His Eddie is right here, wondering what is going on. Why he’s so upset and frazzled and not bitching about the ice anymore.

Richie reaches out for Eddie’s hand, clasping onto it for a few beats.

“Don't worry about it. I’m just glad you’re here. You being here...it helps.”

Eddie frowns, watching Richie look down at the porcelain, condensation dripping from the ice hunk down his face. Eddie doesn’t say anything and just rubs a thumb over Richie’s knuckles before pulling his hand away and pressing the ice closer onto Richie's temple. 

Richie closes his eyes, accepting the chill that runs through his body like a wire. When he opens them, Eddie is pink once more, watching.

Waiting...?

There is a knock at the door and Eddie blinks for a moment before urging Richie to hold the ice pack in place. Eddie stands and opens the door, catching sight of Bill and the others.

“We’re kinda’ h-hungry. Got anything to eat? All w-we found in the cabinets were mixes and smoothies.”

Richie couldn’t help but laugh out loud at that. Eddie’s dumb fucking mom.

“That woman is the size of a house, she’s hiding the goods somewhere in here! No way she’s living off of shakes. Eddie? Maybe. But her? Fuck no.”

Everyone nodded in slight agreement, but Eddie suddenly looked infuriated.

“You’re such an asshole.” He stood and stormed out the bathroom, the others moving out of his way and watching him go.

Richie bit his lip, regretting his words.

“I shouldn’t have said that."

Stanley raised his eyebrows, shock coloring his face.

"What, are you growing a conscience motormouth? He'll be okay. You guys fight every second, what's one more to add to the list?"

Well. Stan was right. They _had_ fought a lot through the years.

The others didn’t seem to take much mind of Eddie's soured disposition, seemingly used to it. How often had Richie antagonized the little guy? God, how much of an asshole was he as a kid?

He had missed being a little fuck, but not like this.

...Well. _Kinda'_ like this, if he's being honest. He's a riot, and Eddie's great material. But maybe he should do it less. Because he wants to really appreciate having Eddie back in his life breathing, not to make him into comedy material so much.

“Well,” Ben says into the silence. “Let’s go find the food.”

They all hunt around the house, and Richie, knowing the minds of chunky people, isn’t afraid to get on his knees and check under Mrs. Kaspbrak’s bed. It’s there that he finds the first box of cookies. After rummaging and moving a few handbags here and there, he spies the stash. Boxes of food, bags of chips, it’s like a general goods store down there. Even with her clearly immense appetite, Richie is sure that Eddie's mom won’t notice any stock missing.

As they eat on the carpet, shooting the shit and joking around, Richie can’t help but notice Eddie’s still-tight form.

He was sitting on the sofa with a book, obviously not reading it, looking at the space between his feet with a upset expression.

Richie bit his lip. How many times had he made Eddie feel like that and ignored it? God. He really didn’t know how to appreciate a guy, huh?

But...but there was a reason. There always had been. He knew it was no excuse but, it was true.

He was afraid of being found out. He knew back then if he was _too_ nice, it could be misread.

Or worse, perfectly understood.

But he’d never gotten much of a chance to be nice to his old Eddie. And the very last time he had, he’d spouted a fib that got the guy killed.

Fuck. It’s still hard to even think about that.

This is his second chance. Maybe he won't be able to tell Eddie how he feels. From old fears. Being rejected. Being accepted, and then being disappointing and rejected. Guilt, from being secretly damn-near geriatric.

But he does want to try and be nicer. Better.

Eddie deserves that.

* * *

He takes stock of all of his friends as they eat and talk, thinking of all their secrets that became fully uncovered during the final battle. They’d confided in one another during a few stolen moments, particularly after finding their tokens. Richie had never really revealed his secrets. 

But some of the others had. Hints. Implications.

He looks to Beverly first.

Saying that her father was a piece of shit would be a massive understatement. Her father was an outright abuser. An animal. On the level of 'it', as far as Richie was concerned. The guy used fear and control of someone with less power to make himself feel big or like something that mattered. It was no wonder why Beverly never wanted to go home after hanging out and stayed out late into the night. It was no wonder why she always had bandages in different places, saying it was from the Barrens or from bullies or from falling or tripping. Richie didn't even want to go into the rumors. Whether they held truth or not (because even now, he wasn't sure) he didn't give a fuck. But it was a common habit of the abused to become promiscuous. As an adult, he knew that much.

She shouldn’t even be in that house anymore. He had to fix that. He was going to fix that. It was his responsibility, now.

He looks to Mike.

The kid was being relentlessly bullied and assaulted and harassed, Derry’s racial joke pinata. And his grandfather, as much as Mike sung the guy's praises, was also kind of an asshole. He kept Mike from school and hangouts a lot to 'work'. More than what was probably acceptable, but it's not like anyone ever called CPS or asked questions. They should have. The grandfather was obviously braised by the racism he likely faced himself in this town. Mike was a quiet guy. He rarely spoke. Never told any of them about what he went through. The adult Mike had spoken so much, it was jarring in contrast. How much stuff had Mike needed to say that he felt he couldn't...? The amount of times they’d witnessed him getting hurt, fucked with...hell Bowers was gonna' smash his head in with a stone. Only God knew how many more times shit had happened to him. And Mike didn’t have anyone to defend him after they'd all left.

He hadn’t had anyone for twenty-seven years. Hell, longer than that, if Richie was honest. He vowed to fix that. It was his responsibility, now.

He looks to Ben.

Ben was being carved up by the mullet moron weekly, like some kind of after school horror show special. He was being bullied by everyone with a pulse in Derry High for being the fat kid (which wasn’t that fat for modern day standards, but this was the eighties...Richie realized that everyone was thin if not fit). And Ben was majorly crushing on Beverly without saying anything, which was beyond stupi— _wait_. Maybe Richie doesn’t have the authority to say that. He has his own crushes. 

At least Ben ‘fessed up twenty-seven years later. Richie never did.

Well. He would help Ben realize his potential at creating things both architecturally and romantically. He would help Ben see his worth in their group, as a person, fat or not. He could do it, now.

He looks to Bill.

Bill still blamed himself for his kid brother getting eaten by a fucking clown demon. All because he wanted a break from the ‘big brother thing’ for an hour or so. He didn’t deserve that kind of guilt. It was too heavy to bear and honestly, he didn’t know how Bill bore it for all the years that he did. 

Because Richie knew that guilt. It was born when he watched Eddie die in the bowels of the Well House. And it had been too heavy for the months he’d been going on afterwards. Heavy enough to make him buckle, make him side-glance at the occasional kitchen knife, the sometimes pill bottle. He wouldn’t let Bill stew in that dark shit anymore. He deserved a reprieve, a chance to get the guilt off his shoulders.

Speaking of dark matters...

Finally, he looks to Stanley. 

Stanley was a tense kid. Richie could count on his hand the amount of times he'd seen Stan completely relaxed. Stanley was a paranoid kid. And apparently one prone to suicide and thinking he was too ‘weak’. It was funny in a fucked up way. Stan often acted in control and on top of things. He liked to act haughty and distant around the gang but near the end, he seemed to need the group more than anyone else. He needed the anchor with them that he couldn’t find in his cold, rigid-ruled Judaic household, something Richie was a little familiar with. And once he felt he was weighing them down, he just...he just...

Richie doesn't know how, but he knows he has to find out. He has to find a way to get it in Stanley's mind that ending himself is never something anyone else would want. That he is braver than he will ever, ever know. It's a silent promise. His responsibility.

He looks to Eddie.

His wildly hypochondriac, insecure, hyperactive Eddie. Sometimes ricocheting off the walls, sometimes painfully quiet, depending on what medication his mother has him on that day. Richie’s bouncing board for every joke, every diversion that Richie ever needed to feel 'normal' or 'grounded'.

Eddie deserved to know he was okay. That the world wasn't waiting to swallow him whole. That there wasn't a leper or creep around every corner, that he could breathe and rest easy knowing he was capable, that his friends would protect him all the way to the end of the line.

Well.

Eddie just deserved better.

They all did.

And Richie promised himself that he would give it to them.

“You’re being awfully quiet again, motormouth. Whatcha’ thinking about?” Beverly teases.

Richie fights not to project onto her, he fights to see only her bright smile and not the secrets behind it. Not her father hurting her or the line of boys and men looking to do the same. The Losers were all so much more than their secrets, their pain.

Their fears.

"Just thinking about stuff I'm gonna' fix this fall."

Beverly shrugs, contemplating as she twirls a chip in her hand.

"...Is it a project?"

"Sort of. Yeah."

"Wow," she laughs, "You must _really_ be hurt like how Eddie says if you're thinking about homework. Summer only just ended. It's not like you have to turn it in early, right?"

Richie doesn't say anything at first. He needs to figure things out fast. He knows what he knows and now it won't let him rest easy.

How could he ever rest, knowing what he knows and doing nothing about it? This isn't just his second chance anymore. It's all of theirs. And he doesn't know how long it will last. He needs to move fast.

"I'm gonna' try."

After that, they fall back into the rhythm of things, talking and laughing. Sophomore year will be different, everyone seems to think. Ben's doing some kind of new design class Derry High is offering. Stanley is doing an art course with Beverly. Mike and Bill are in creative writing classes. Richie has no idea what he's doing because he can't remember what he signed up for, but he doesn't tell the others that. When he goes home, he'll hunt around for clues and figure it out.

Eventually, the phone rang and Eddie disappeared before reappearing, looking nervous.

"My mom just called from the convention center. She says she’s on her way home now. I think you guys should go.”

The others nod, hoisting themselves up and trying to rearrange everything exactly as it was before they entered the space. Mrs. Kaspbrak still sucks and deserves crumbs in her carpet. But Eddie doesn't suck, and he doesn't deserve to get chewed out for letting his banned friends back inside their place.

So the Losers clean and head out.

* * *

Richie takes a shaky breath when he walks through the door.

Home is familiar.

It hasn’t changed much. His mom is still a little cold and entirely appearance-focused. His dad is still weird, yet warm in his own way. He is not the first to greet Richie when he enters his old childhood home, but his dad is the first to smile at him.

A pang hits Richie in his chest. He had forgotten how it felt to be loved and cared for by his parents. Forty year old Richie had gotten used to having no one. His folks had passed years ago. All he had afterwards, were his assistants, the television hosts, the fans, his gaggle of comedian friends. Those guys all made him feel utterly lonely. They had caring families that they had built over the years or had already possessed, they had lifelong friends, they had lovers, and all Richie had were his jokes and the stage.

Joke’s on him, he had guessed then.

But now, as he wraps his arms around his father’s shoulders, his mother’s waist, as he feels them curl their old hands into the thick hair on his scalp, Richie can’t help but feel like a warm fist is enveloping him once more. A love. Not the one he had wished desperately for through the years, but one that was still close to his heart and valued nonetheless.

He wanders through the house, palming the old wallpaper and toeing the creaking floorboards.

He wanders around his old room, eyeballing the hoards of action figures and comics that he used to hold so dear. That he still sort of does. He spies a few items gifted from the Losers scattered around as well. Bill’s bike pump. Mike’s jacket. Stanley’s books, Beverly’s pencil case. Eddie’s comics.

He is an assortment of all the pieces that make up his friends, that make up him.

As a guy out of time, Richie realizes that he feels lost. He feels an eeriness, a knowing that none of this should be, that he should not be here. That it can all be easily ripped from him by forces unknown. 

Yet he is here.

And despite the feeling, he also feels like he belongs.

All feels both well and unwell. Opposites simultaneous.

He’s happy to be home in Derry, at last.

But there is still something he’s forgotten.

Something itches in the corner of his mind all day, something foreboding. Something he hadn't felt until he arrived in this parallel place.

He can't quite name it. Not during dinner with his parents, not when he's bathing himself or dressing his bed, and not when he's laying in his blankets, rubbing his stomach.

When he finally closes his eyes, when he finally succumbs to sleep, the bond that died in the Well House slips back into him through the cracks. The Deadlights beam brightly in his dreams. Bodies of dead kids hulk atop one another in dirty sewer water, rising higher and higher and higher. Everlasting gore. Everlasting wells.

The bodies begin to float, to fall.

And then the nightmares start.


	4. Operation Bev': Fix It Felix Fails at Things and Maybe Succeeds in One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I hope you're all safe, healthy, and stable. Second, I read and appreciate every single comment I get. I just try to refrain from answering them until I've finished a fic because personally, I feel that helps me commit to finishing it, since I love communicating with others on here. It's my little self imposed carrot on a stick. Feel free to direct message me anytime. Thank you for your patience
> 
> Richie is going to school. It's a little trash. He's going to approach the first friend in need.
> 
> TW: implications of sexual assault/molestation, use of homophobic slurs

Richie wakes up with bed sheets sticking to him like a second skin.

The cotton is thoroughly dampened, mirroring the dark locks of hair now matted to his forehead. He feels sweat rolling down his chest and lowers his gaze to see sheen glistening off of his collarbones, collarbones that are jumping in time with his wheezed gasps for air. 

“Oh _ n _—”

He flings himself over the side of his bed, hand clenching at his stomach as he desperately tries to hold in the urge to vomit. 

He fails. 

When the wave of nausea and revulsion finally lessens, Richie can’t keep the groan from escaping.

“Eugh...”

His dreams...they had been _filled_ with sewers and gore. Body after body, partially eaten and hidden and rotting.

He had seen glimpses, too. Of what, he didn’t know. The past. The present. The future. All of it was mashed up into one, big, nonsensical blend. One minute he was watching ‘it’ chase after brown-skinned kids in the woods, kids who were adorning feathers and animal furs. The next minute, he was watching ‘it’ stalk after what looked like oblivious pioneer children on a lakeside. After those images blurred past, he’d watched ‘it’ lure a little girl donning a football jersey into a shadowy underpass.

He was seeing through ‘it’s’ eyes. He saw what ‘it’ saw. Or had seen.

Or _ would _see.

What was even going on...? Why was he having these dreams when—

—Oh.

“Fuck. The Lights!”

He’d looked right into them before. As an adult. A loud sound, endless beams, rows and rows of teeth.

Just like Beverly. 

But...they had killed ‘it’, like, that same day. Right...? Yeah...So for once, as an adult, Richie lucked out in a way because he...he never got the chance to experience any freaky nightmares or visions like adult Beverly had told him she’d experienced. There were no nightmares like this before. There couldn’t have been. 

Only the ones he’d been used to...the ones with Eddie. Those had been the worst.

This was pretty close, though. 

Here, in this plane of existence where ‘it’ still roamed...still lived, no matter how weakly it may be down in that sewer...

“Just my fucking luck.”

So there’s a fucked up psychic tether. Great.

Richie groans, wiping a clammy hand down his sweaty face. He’d wanted at least one good night’s rest before trying to tackle the Losers’ problems the next day. He figured some shut-eye after dimension hopping would’ve been very beneficial for him and his little kid body. But now, he doesn’t even know if he’ll catch any sleep ever again until the dumb clown is murked. Again.

He can’t operate like this. It won’t work like this.

Demented dreams every night...? 

He doesn’t even know how adult Beverly handled these night terrors, but if this shit is going to happen every night on top of everything else, Richie won’t have enough energy to tackle the other problems he’s responsible for solving.

He thinks.

The odds aren’t stacked too high. Right? Yeah...

He’s tired. Not afraid. 

Disturbed? 

Tremendously. 

But not deterred. Not in _fear_.

He would never allow himself be afraid of that clown again. Not after what all that it took from him. A childhood. Memories. A life. A friend...well...

More than a friend.

Richie feels his heart skip a beat and is quick to derail that train of thought. 

_ ‘I can’t. It’s...I can’t.’ _

Time to do something to distract himself from thoughts he’s not ready or willing to dissect at the moment. He leaves the room in search of a mop and towels, returning to clean the mess off of his floor. He wasn’t too old mentally to forget how much his mom could flip her shit if she found her hardwood floors stained.

“Stupid fucking clown,” Richie grumbles as he cleans. 

And now he was connected to it.

How does one go about shutting off a psychic tether? Richie ponders on it before shrugging to himself, resting on the mop handle. 

Of course, he has no fucking clue. 

Hell, he just figured out what day it was. Year, too. He’ll just go and look it up in the high school library tomorrow. If there’s nothing there, he’ll go to the central library in town. If there’s nothing there, well...

It’s not like there’s Google to rely on these days.

He doesn’t sleep. He scrounges up some paper and a pen.

He plans.

* * *

School is a lot more transparent than he remembers it being. 

A lot clearer. 

Apparent.

Through fresh, older eyes, it’s easier to see people. Understand them. The excitement and nervousness of the students in the air. The weariness and annoyance of the teachers and faculty workers. He can even kind of tell now which bullies are suffering from certain insecurities. Same thing with the popular kids. Same thing with the loners. 

Not as easy with the Losers.

Sure, he knew about a lot of their problems. Much more now, than he did as a kid. But it didn’t mean he knew everything. 

He wasn’t omniscient. And he wouldn’t pretend to be. Even coming from the future/alternate dimension. The difuture. Heh, ‘deh future’. The Fumension. Uh... The “Other Place™”.

_ 'Focus, Richie.' _

“Hey,” he asks out loud, remembering where he’s at. The school hallway. Beside him are Eddie, Stanley and Bill. Aren’t they all supposed to be heading to class, anyway...?

Eddie glances his way, concern coloring his expression. 

“What?” Eddie asks. “Is it your concus—”

“—I’m _ fine _, clean bill of health, thank you Nurse Eddie, moving on—!” Richie interjects quickly. 

Jeeeesus. Eddie needed to learn to let that health anxiety _ go _. Richie continues.

“Why didn’t we walk to school with Ben this morning? And Mike? And Beverly?”

They all stare at him now.

Bill’s brow quirks. “W-what do you mean?”

“I mean,” Richie insists, “we had a death-defying summer together! We fought literal evil! And we all hung out together yesterday. So why is it that today, we’re apart? We should all walk together.”

Bill nods a little. “S-sure, that makes sense. But...”

Stanley fills in for Bill, addressing Richie. “You’re lucky you even walked with us at all, Richie. We almost left you this morning, remember?”

“It’s not my fault I forgot the meetup spot!” Richie responds, shrugging. It’d been a really long time, unbeknownst to them. He couldn’t recall every specific detail of his childhood whereabouts.

“How do you forget where the meetup spot is, dummy? We all live within blocks of each other. It’s only a few streets away from your house. We’ve been meeting up there every day since for—”

“Look, I had a rough night, okay?” Richie frowns. “Sheesh. Sue me for having a lapse in memory, Stan—”

“—H-hey,” Bill cuts. “_Enough_. Look R-Richie...Bev’ gets in p-pretty late. Mike d-doesn’t attend as much, remember? He helps his g-g-grandpa. And Ben has Breakfast Club. He gets to school before all of us. So it wouldn’t work out.”

Richie thinks on it._ ‘Valid,’_ he concludes.

“Alright. As long as we’re not like...leaving them out, or anything.”

“Why would we do that?” Eddie asks, genuinely curious.

“We wouldn’t.” Richie answers, giving Eddie a small grin. Eddie returns it slowly, before it falls away. The concern is back.

“You look kind of tired, Richie. Something to do with that ‘rough night’?”

Richie blinks a little at that. He takes off his glasses and rubs at his eyes a bit, hoping to bring some life back to the sleepy things.

It’s there in the dark, rubbing his eyes; that’s when he walks into the bully.

“Oi!” a gruff voice of someone going through a rough puberty shouts. Someone with aggression.

Richie sighs internally.

_ ‘Here we go.’ _

To be honest, he had forgotten about some of the bullies that played starring roles in his childhood as little league annoyances. Those roles followed the star act of his childhood terror, Mullet Moron, of course. They hadn’t really gone away after fighting ‘it’.

He had forgotten. Until now.

One of those said ‘annoyances’ had just barrelled straight into him.

Barely catching himself from falling, Richie opens his eyes to glare, parting his lips to state his irritation.

The bully beats him to it. 

“Don’t you look where you’re going, you dumb hunk of shit?”

The venom and tenacity in the voice was enough to make Richie hesitate.

Oh man. Right.

Eighties bullies.

He’d forgotten how fucking...well, _ crazy _they were.

Modern day kids had cyber stalking and online harassment and leaked nudes and videos. Eighties kids had black eyes and busted lips and broken arms and loogies. Both were painful. Both were reputation-ruining. Traumatizing...

...One, however, required a lot more Neosporin than the other.

“Who’re you looking at?” The nameless bully demands. “You gonna’ do something, punk? Or are you going to run like a little girl? Or better, you gonna’ to cry to a teacher about me? Tell them I called you names and that I think you’re a waste of space? Move out of my way!”

Bill tugs at Richie’s elbow. 

“C’mon. Let’s go.”

_‘No,’_ Richie thinks. There’s plenty of space for this guy to go around them. He’s just choosing to insult Richie in every way he knows how. He’s choosing to pick a fight. And Richie knows it’s because this coward thinks he’ll win. He’s sizing him up, eyeballing his short stature, pale skin, dorky glasses, and thin body. This guy thinks he can give Richie shit and that nothing will happen to him. That he can step on the ‘weak’ and that his worthless, oh-so-valued school reputation will be elevated for it.

Richie has faced worse things. And they were a lot tougher than this kid.

So no. Richie doesn’t want to go. 

He wants all the smoke, as a matter of fact.

As Richie refuses to walk away and continues staring down the bully, he vaguely remembers there not being a lot of adult intervention going on. With any of the bullying. Definitely not in Derry, anyways. Besides. He was mature in mind (for the most part, he figured) but he still remembered some of the kid code. It had probably been written in stone somewhere before all of them ever existed.

Before ‘it’, even.

The code? Snitching was one thing. But getting caught snitching? 

A full licensure to getting your ass kicked six ways to Sunday. 

“Do you _ hear _me, four-eyes?” The bully booms, nearing Richie. “I said move out my way before I-”

Richie can’t stop the disbelieving laugh that bubbles out him.

Fuck _ this _.

“Move this, asshole!” Richie shouts, reeling his hand back as if he’s about to throw a terrific punch. Gasps arise around him but he doesn’t dare look away. The bully’s gaze follows his fist, and the guy tenses his body, reeling back his own fists. 

The distraction works.

He doesn’t see Richie’s foot swinging into his shin until it’s too late.

“Agh!” The bully yelps, gripping his leg.

Richie uses the pained pause to bowl the guy over. The bully yelps again, splayed on the floor this time, looking up at Richie murderously.

Whatever. Richie isn’t above cheap shots. 

Ever.

“Fucking loser,” Richie spits before stepping over the guy.

Yeah. That felt good.

His friends catch up to him through the small crowd that has suddenly collected. Their movements become hurried as they walk away from the scene with him. The bell rings and crowds of kids enter the hallway, swallowing the fallen bully from sight behind them.

“What was that?” Bill asks bluntly, glancing between Richie and the bully. “Why did you do that?”

Richie shrugs. “I don’t know. That guy was asking for it. So I gave it to him.”

Stanley is looking at Richie like he’s grown a second head.

“Richie? You know that guy is going to come back and kick your butt right?”

Eddie is biting at his nails, looking intensely worried.

“I think Stanley’s right,” Eddie supplies. “That was Rodney Berksen. Rodney Berksen has like, fifty friends and they’re all on ‘roids and they’ll all come to kick your-”

Richie turns to look at them all, shaking his head.

“I’m not going to let people pick on us anymore, guys.”

The rest look stunned. Richie goes on.

“C’mon...you really think those lugs have anything on us? They’re not stronger than us, not where it counts. And they’re not better than us. They don’t get to walk around and try to make us feel like dirt. Not anymore.”

The bell rings, and Richie remembers his mission for the day. He turns and begins to walk down a different hallway. 

“I’ll catch you guys at lunch.”

“Richie!”

Richie turns towards the calling voice to see Eddie, looking bewildered, with the rest of the guys looking equally puzzled behind him.

“Richie? We have Science class right now! Where are you going?”

Oh. Classes. 

Well...one missed class couldn’t hurt, right?

“I’ve got something to do. Uh...cover for me? Say I got sick or something. Thanks!”

Richie jogs off, wincing a bit. Maybe he should’ve went...? He didn’t even know where his classes were, and he could have found out from following the guys. 

Well. There were more important things. It was nothing he hadn’t already learned anyway. Man...he had to do school all over again? And high school? And...everything?

Huh. Maybe he could use his adult brain to his advantage. Skid by the classes. He could be like, the next Einstein of Derry—

_ ‘Focus, Richie.’ _

First, he would go to the main office to get a copy of his classes. His excuse could be that a recently healed concussion knocked all of the information out of his head. Or...he could just say he forgot. He doubted the office workers would care either way.

Second, he would go to the library and see if he could find anything relevant to his psychic dilemma.

Third, he’d find Beverly. She was the first on the ‘list’.

So much to do, and it was only day one! God, he had no idea what was going on anymore. May as well keep moving forward, he guessed. 

This was their second chance.

* * *

The school library is mostly the same. 

It’s peaceful. Quiet. Semi-empty. Calm...

...For a few minutes, anyway.

“So you were hiding in here, huh, freak? You think we’ll let you get away with it?”

Richie flips a page. What, do they make these guys in a factory somewhere?

“Get away with ‘what’.”

“Trying to pull one over on Rodney, that’s what! Don’t play stupid.”

Richie barely spares the new bully a glance away from his stack of ESP books. He’s reread the same sentence for the past six minutes and the last thing he needs is a hostile, oversized teenager bothering him further.

“Do you know another kid you can project your issues onto? I’m busy. Go be a dick somewhere else.”

The bully’s hackles rise, and he draws closer.

“Nah, I bet you like me being a ‘dick’ to you, Tozier. You love it, actually. Fairy,” the bully spits venemously. “Fag.”

Richie pauses, tongue on the roof of his mouth. He closes the book in his hand and raises his head to look at the bully, fully.

This guy thinks a comment like that will hurt Richie. Will cripple him. 

It probably would’ve when he was actually a kid. Maybe even when he was an adult, before he killed the clown with his friends for the second time. 

Richie had been scared, then. Insecure. Unseated and uncomfortable with his own inherent desires, his own attractions and flaws. He was scared because he knew the consequences those words could bring. And he knew they were the truth. 

Even now, after all of these years, even after denying himself fear...Richie was afraid of it. Of being labeled, ostracized, and publicized for it. Of being thrown away. 

But...

...But there were scarier things prowling out there in the big bad world than Richie being into guys. 

And he knew that, now.

“...What if I am?” Richie suggests simply. “You trying to blow me? Huh, big boy...? Is that what this is about? You wanna’ see a dick?”

The bully’s eyes widen, disgust shining in them. Richie knows he’s hit his mark.

Richie slams down his book with a loud, resounding thud. 

He’s on a roll.

“Then all you have to do,” Richie begins to shout, “is go look in the fucking mirr—!”

A cacophony of pain and white blots out his vision. His hearing goes out. Slowly, it all drags back to him in a dull, red pain.

The punch was unexpected. And seemingly—from how _ awful _Richie’s face felt—unrestrained in any way.

Richie is vaguely aware that he’s holding his face on the floor, wincing and writhing. The hit was hard enough to knock him out of his chair, knock his glasses off. His side is aching right along with his face. He feels around on the floor for the lost spectacles.

“What were you saying, fag?”

Richie coughs, still winded. He hears the bully pick up a library book off the table and feels that same item being chucked at his legs. He grunts at the impact, tucking his limbs into himself. 

“C’mere.”

A fist collects into the fabric of his shirt, lifting him off of the floor.

“Listen. If you ever get mouthy with Rodney or me again...? We will wipe the fucking floor with you. Don’t think that just because Bowers is in the psycho-bin, that you can do whatever you want around this school. We run this shit now, punk. We’re the new kings. Got the message?”

“Yep,” Richie croaks. “Got it, received it, transcribed it, translated it—”

Richie’s words convert into a whimper as he is punched again.

“Anyone ever tell you that you talk too fucking much? Fucking loser.”

Richie is almost glad to be unceremoniously dumped on the library floor. He closes his eyes and listens as the bully is finally shooed away by faculty (and where the fuck were they when he was getting his face punched in??). Kids nearby murmur before seemingly going back to what they were doing, leaving Richie to feel like overboiled spaghetti on the floor.

“Yeah,” Richie says to no one for the hell of it, “I’ve heard.”

* * *

Donning slightly crooked glasses, a new split lip, and a throbbing temple, Richie tries to refocus on the textbooks at hand. He’s gone through about three of them by the time lunch rolls around. The library’s quick emptying of kids signifies the hour.

Only a few books had small passages relevant to what Richie wanted to know.

_ “...ESP; extrasensory perception: method of communication outside of normal sensory capability, as in telepathy and clairvoyance. Often referred to as the ‘sixth sense’...” _

_ “...Unfounded rumors of a government program by the possible name of ‘Stargate’ has been suspected to be developed in hopes of spying on the Soviet Union through use of psychic abilities...” _

_ “...Those who believe in ESP manifesting on the physical plane suggest strengthening techniques through meditation and intuition...” _

“Hm. So this was a bust.”

Richie closes the books and looks around the empty library. 

Ah well, he figures. He can try the meditation route tonight. See if it does any good...?

He decides to move on to the next action of importance on his list. 

* * *

“Hey guys!” Richie greets cheerily, walking up to the Losers’ lunch table. He looks around to see someone is obviously missing. “Where’s Beverly?”

The others shrug.

“Nice shiner,” Bill comments, assessing Richie’s ruffled, beaten state. “I g-guess Rodney’s f-friends got to you? You okay?”

Richie nods. “Yeah. Even with their puny brains, they managed to one-up me. I’m okay, though. Why isn’t Beverly here?”

Bill’s brow lifts at the redirection, but Ben, who has suddenly sat down to join them all, cuts in.

“She seemed interested in the pudding today but I guess she changed her mind,” Ben notes sadly, looking downcast at two puddings sitting forlornly on his tray. He refocuses on Richie and grimaces. “Jeez. What happened to you?”

“I pissed some people off. The guys will fill you in,” Richie answers nonchalantly. “Where could she have gone?”

Ben’s looking suspicious now alongside Bill.

“Why do you want to know so bad, Rich’...?”

“Ben, what are you, my psychiatrist? Don’t answer a question with a question. I need to talk to Beverly, that’s all.”

Bill is frowning at him now. No surprise there. He probably thinks Richie is going to confess his love to her or something. As if he ever would! As if any confession of his would ever draw her eyes off of Bill.

Someone else, though...

Richie glances at Ben, who is also frowning at him.

Richie begins to realize that their reactions say a lot more about how he probably used to be at this age than it says about them. He must have really been crushing on Beverly...? But he doesn’t remember it beings that way. He remembers feeling that way for...

Eddie. Who is now looking at him with disdain.

...Huh. When did that happen?

“Slobbering after her won’t make her like you any more than the next guy,” Eddie mumbles, biting into his peanut butter sandwich, crusts cut off, of _ course _.

Richie feels his eyes widen behind his crooked glasses. There is a certain weighted accusation under Eddie’s voice, behind their gazes, that Richie does not appreciate.

“Slobber? _ What _? I have a question for her, not a proposal. You guys are acting like I’m some kind of fiend.”

“You are,” Stan responds flatly. “It’s always _ ‘girls this’ _ , and _ ‘girls that’ _ and _ ‘crude comment about giant appendages’ _ with you. Sherry, Jessica, Aaliyah, Lilian, Beth, Sophia—”  
“Okay!” Richie interrupts. Sheesh, he _ had _been a little fiend. A lot of it was hormonal and gross and true, yes. But a lot of it was a cover for his real feelings about both sexes. Either way, it was clear he had a reputation of being a desperate little horn dog. So...opposite from how he actually turned out in adulthood. “Conversation over! I’ll find her myself.”

Richie turns, pauses, then turns back around.

“...And no, I’m not going to talk to her about anything even remotely romantic, so untwist your britches, build a bridge, and get _ over _ it! Maybe if you all were as vocal about any hidden confessions _ you _might be repressing, you wouldn’t be so uptight right now, huh?”

_ ‘Heh. Speak for yourself, Tozier’. _

He leaves and begins the search.

* * *

He finds her in a place he realizes that he should’ve known. A place where lots of other loners hung out.

The school lawn.

“_ There _ you are! I looked everywhere. Honestly, you wouldn’t believe how true that statement is, let me tell you.”

Beverly tilts her head up from her spot on the grass, smiling at him.

Her smile looks like a dream, as he always remembered her looking. Just not as rosy-tinted. And smaller. 

Sadder.

“Richie,” she greets, looking back at her journal. “If you say you went ‘looking’ in the girl’s bathroom? I’d believe it.”

“Well hey, don’t ruin the surprise,” Richie jokes before plopping on the grass next to her. “Nice day, huh?”

_ ‘Smooth.’ _

Breathe, Richie. 

He just...

He has no idea how he can break the ice on this. He is about to bring up one of the single most traumatic things in Beverly’s life. That he knows of, anyway.

“Yeah,” Beverly nods in agreement, her eyes curious and genuinely warm. “It’s nice.”

They both sit for a moment, enjoying the breeze. Beverly was always one that knew how to enjoy the quiet. As a kid, Richie found solace in it, but eventually his hyperactive need to fill the silence would win out. And for a long time, Richie thought Bill was different from her with his silence. Bill’s quiet was heavy and thick. Richie knows now it was brooding, melancholic thought. And now...? Now, Richie knows Beverly wasn’t much different.

She just hid it better. 

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” She jokes.

_ ‘The fact that things are about to change forever between us.’ _

“I need to talk to you,” Richie begins.

Beverly nods, understanding. 

“Okay. Makes sense. You wouldn’t have done all that work to find me if you didn’t need to.”

Richie nods and takes a second to think on his words.

“I’m not...sure how to say this. Bear with me?”

Beverly pauses. Richie can’t read her expression.

“I like us being friends, Richie. I don’t want—”

“—Why does everyone think I’m trying to confess?” Richie wonders aloud. “Beverly, I don’t want to date you.”

Her eyes widen considerably at that.

_ ‘For fuck’s sake. Was I that desperate...?’ _

“...Alright, Richie. What is it, then?”

Band Aid. Just rip it off. Rip it—

“It’s about your dad.”

Beverly doesn’t look put off by the mention of him at all, but her eyes search his face as she thinks of the possible connotation.

“My dad...? Oh, I get it...Richie, I’m sorry but he’ll never agree to you guys hanging out at my place, okay? He wants no boys is near the house within like, a ten foot pole—”

“—No Bev’. Not that.”

Beverly stops, confused.

“...Then what is it?”

Richie hesitates, scratching the back of his head. 

How can he be gentle about this? It’s fucked up. But it’s imminent. And it’s real and he can’t ignore it or hope it fixes itself. She could go home today and get hurt if he doesn’t do anything. Shit...she could’ve gone home yesterday and gotten hurt...

Anything that happens to her from here on out? It’s his fault. It’s his fault because he knows the truth, because he’s older and knows better than to let her suffer in silence. No one else can help in the way Richie can.

“Look...don’t take this the wrong way. But...I feel like your home situation is...I want to help you out.”

He leaps over the situation. He is suddenly very nervous to imply it, now that he’s looking her in the face.

This was so much easier when it was just a plan in his head.

Beverly is looking a little wary now. It’s not a look Richie remembered her wearing often at that age. Not around them. She was happy with them. With him.

And he was about to destroy that.

“I don’t understand,” she says, her voice getting quiet. 

Richie thinks she already does.

He breathes before meeting her eyes, head-on.

“I know he hurts you, Beverly.”

Her facial expression twists into something very odd and frightening before she quickly naturalizes her features.

“_Excuse_ me?”

Richie can feel himself wincing.

“I...I _know_ what he does to you, Beverly. It’s...it’s not your faul—”

“—I **really** don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She stands, and gathers her stuff, muscles clenched. Richie feels like something between them just shattered, something irreparable.

“Beverly, wait...I’m sorry, okay? I really am. But I know, and I can’t let it happen again, now that I know. And I can help you, we can fix th—”

“—How would you know _ anything _, Richie?!”

Her shriek is pure fury, and sharp. It’s enough to take Richie’s breath away. His gut sinks. She goes on, breathing too hard and too fast .

“You...you _ think _ you know. You listened to all those gross rumors about me probably...that’s what this is! You _ think _ I’m enough of a slut...to do something like _ that _...you believe all those people over me, your friend.”

“No!” Richie protests hollowly, his throat growing dry. She is not the woman he knew as a man and yet she will be, and she is enraged, and he feels completely useless in this very moment. “I-I don’t listen to r-rumors, Beverly! I know you would never do anything like that.”

Beverly watches him, with hurt questions written all over her face.

“Then _ why _are you in my face over this?!”

“Because...I know he’d _ force _ something like...’that’. I know he’s a bad guy and I know you deserve better. I can help. We can get you away from him so he can never make you—”

She moves in on him faster than he could ever anticipate, her eyes cold and scorching. All the warmth from her is gone, for him. 

He is chilled, right to the bone.

“_ Fuck _ you. No one—can make me—do anything. Do you understand me?”

“Beverly,” Richie whispers. “It’s okay. You’re not weak. You’re not alone. It’s okay to ask for help.”

“—And this ‘help’ thing? What are you getting at, huh? You think you’re ‘helping’ out some poor girl that you assume is being fucked by her father when you don’t know the_ first thing _ about her or her life? About who hurts her or who _ she _ hurts, or who she _ fucks _? Who do you think you are? Who thinks up stuff like that? What kind of sick shit are you on, Richie?”

“I never said that,” Richie says slowly.

“You never said what? That you’d help me? Because I’m certain you did, three _ times— _”

“I never said you fucked anyone, Beverly. I never assumed specifics. I just know he hurts you. That’s enough for me to step in.”

Beverly pales, going white as a sheet under the waning summer sun. 

It is a sight that makes Richie’s heart break.

He wants to forget ever seeing Beverly like this, but he can’t look away. He can’t uproot her world, speak her hidden shame and torture into the open air, and not be brave enough to look her in the face when he does it.

Beverly opens her mouth, clearly to rain hell down on Richie Tozier, but a choked gurgle comes out instead. Her pretty blue eyes begin to well up and she purses wobbling lips, looking straight at Richie.

“Don’t...ever talk to me again.” Her voice comes out empty and rattles with numbness.

Richie’s jaw drops. “Wh_— _"

She turns to leave, but he follows after. It can’t end like this.

“Beverly, don’t- don’t push me away. I’m not bringing this stuff up to hurt you.”

“Well you _ did _ ! By screwing up my day and telling me those l-l- those l- _ lies _!”

Richie reaches for her hand. She flings him off again and again, so he just walks at her side, pleading, begging. She’s crying now, and he’s desperate to stem the grief and humiliation spilling out of her.

“I’m _ so _ sorry Beverly...I just wanted to...I won’t bring it up again, okay? J-just know I’m here for you, alright? My house, you remember where it is. If you ever need anything Bev’, anything at all_— _”

Beverly turns on him, screaming. 

“Go away!”

She runs now, away from the school grounds and away from Richie. 

Richie thinks for a moment. 

_ ‘Fuck.’ _

Then he runs too.

* * *

He catches up to her a few streets away, by the local glen. She is sitting by the river, arms wrapped tightly around her bent knees. She is sniffling and rubbing desperately at her face, but the fervor behind it is gone. It is almost more worrying to hear her cry absently, as if it is just a symptom, rather than a need.

Richie’s foot accidentally kicks a stone, and he knows that she knows that he’s there. 

She doesn’t turn. He takes it as a sign and shuffles closer, not sitting. He doesn’t want to push the envelope any farther out of the stratosphere than he already has.

Maybe he shouldn’t have dropped this so hard. Maybe he should’ve eased into it, tread more carefully.

Maybe he hurt her more by trying to save her quickly than trying to save her mindfully.

What if he can’t even save her?

What if she won’t let him? Or what if she will, and he’s incapable? What if he fails and she falls right back into that prison?

He can’t let it happen. Failure can’t be an option.

It’s quiet for a few moments, save for Beverly’s muffled sniffles. Her voice finally breaks it small and absent of all fury, all strength.

“D...don’t tell anyone...” she gasps through the tears. “Please don’t tell _anyone_—”

“_Bev’ _,” Richie nearly trips over himself, sitting next to her at an arm’s length. “I won’t say a word. I never will.”

“I...H-...he _ made _me...”

“I know.”

“Y-you must...think m'...that I’m disgusting...”

“Not for a second. I think it shouldn’t have ever happened to you. I think you’re not alone anymore.”

Beverly looks up at that, confused. Clearly, Richie has gone way off of the script she expected from him.

He doesn’t even want to think of how poorly he was dealing with this, or how much worse his actual kid-self would have reacted to such knowledge. Ashamedly, he doesn’t think he would’ve been as consoling...

But he’s not a kid anymore. 

Not really.

“I think that you deserved better. That you are better, better than a million of him or anyone like him put together. And you know something else, Bev’?”

“...What?”

“He will never, ever hurt you again. Not while I breathe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
.  
.  
Mike will appear soon enough.


End file.
